


tattoos and a switchblade attitude

by milkovichh



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Boys In Love, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Tattoos, Two Shot, cute shit, kind of, mature for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 14:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10992624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkovichh/pseuds/milkovichh
Summary: Now that it’s been there for a while, Ian kind of loves the ‘Ian Galeger’ tattoo.





	1. snakebite heart

There were many things in life that Ian loved. He loved waking early and taking a refreshing morning run, watching the sun’s ascent into the sky from over the taller buildings; he loved coffee in the fall, despite his inability to drink it anymore due to his medication; he loved sometimes just letting  _be_ — living his life with no drama or manic episodes. Often, he could sit outside with a cigarette and simply gaze, and while his family thought he was going full-out Monica and preparing for another five days in bed unmoving, it was quite the opposite. Most of all, though, Ian loved his boyfriend, Mickey. Perhaps sometimes he turned into some kind of ghetto nurse, (and god did he ramble about ‘no alcohol on lithium’ sometimes) but Ian was undoubtedly in love with the boy, even if it had taken time to show it again properly.

  What came with loving Mickey was loving all of him. From his bitchy morning attitude right down to the way he was always carrying some kind of weapon, Ian fell in love with every part of Mickey. The only thing that took time to love was the tattoo.

  When Ian had first seen it, through the dirty glass at the prison, surrounded by blood and infection, he hadn’t liked it. Because at the time, they had been broken up. And Ian was trying to cut Mickey out of his life, and he hated that he had to be paid to go and see his ex in a prison only to find the thug had gone and branded his body with Ian’s name, albeit spelt incorrectly. By the time Mickey got out, Ian would have moved on. God, that was almost laughable, if it didn’t pain him to still think about that. 

  Once Mickey was out of prison and back in a rocky relationship with Ian, the redhead still had a distaste toward the tattoo. It was a little better, still red around the edges and scruffy, but he couldn’t get used to the bold words across Mickey’s pale skin, thought it looked wrong and out of place. So, naturally, he avoided the subject and the thing itself.

  Now, it had kind of grown on him. The more he had seen it, the more healed and better kept it was. It used to be a symbol of how Mickey was refusing to let him go, which was bad, though now it served as a marking of their love, in a way. It meant that Mickey _was not letting him go_ and Ian loved that.

  Mickey was scarcely shirtless; who could blame him, Chicago was fucking freezing at the best of times. Right now, at ten in the god damn morning on a Saturday, was on of those glorious rare occasions that Mickey ditched his sleeveless shirts and ugly sweaters, walking around the house bare-chested and clad in just his boxers because he had a great disbelief in sleeping with socks on.

  A smile crossed Ian’s face as he emerged from their shared bedroom in the same attire, hair a tussled mess, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he saw Mickey in front of the stove, flipping pancakes. He crossed the room yawning, arms wrapping around the shorter man’s waist from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder. 

  “Jesus, Ian,” was the startled voice he recieved, far too loud for his still half-asleep brain. Regardless, Mickey relaxed into the arms around him, not turning away from the stove. “You alright?”

  The taller only hummed tiredly, planting a kiss to the skin between Mickey’s shoulder and neck before detaching himself from the older male to seek out his pills. 

  “Makin’ pancakes, how many you want?”

  “One’s fine, thanks.” A smile came once more to Ian’s face after seeing the disgusted look on Mickey’s face even from a side-angle.

  “Who the fuck only eats one pancake, man?” he was muttering and it may have only been small, but Ian’s heart swelled a little at the fact that Mickey was happy to make more if the younger requested.

  His eyes landed on the tattoo as breakfast was served to the small wooden table, the two boys sitting across from each other. Across his chest read ‘Ian Galeger’, right there: inked into his skin for life. It meant he would always have that, a sign that he loved Ian and wanted his name written right into his flesh, and Mickey’s eyebrow raised as his boyfriend flat-out stared at his chest. He checked down to see if he’d got some fucking mapel syrup down his bare chest — of which he’d have no idea how he wouldn’t notice — but, alas, there was nothing. Around a mouthful of pancakes, he spoke; “the fuck you lookin’ at?”

  Quickly, Ian’s eyes shot up like he had no clue that he had been burning holes into the other’s chest with his eyes, stumbling over a couple of letters before smiling gently and shaking his head, saying, “Nothin’.”

  Rolling his eyes, Mickey went back to his breakfast. 

 

The second time Mickey caught Ian’s eyes on his chest was later that day, when he was getting dressed with the taller boy sat on the bed. Blue eyes looked questioningly at the reflection of his boyfriend as he tugged his jeans up and buttoned them, unable to catch green ones for a couple of moments. “Seriously, man, have I got somethin’ there?”

  “What?” the ginger asked, seeming confused as he tilted his head at Mickey. The other picked up a shirt and threw it over his head, raising a brow before continuing.

  “You look like you’re tryna find somethin’ on my chest.”

  He wasn’t too far off, admittedly. Yet, Ian had only been studying the letters of his own name with a small smile as he thought on the fact that, in prison, Mickey still thought of him and had been brave enough to tattoo himself with Ian’s name. That he pained himself with a dirty needle, tattooing upside-down, for anybody to see that he was gay and loved another guy. That Mickey wasn’t angry, then, like he should’ve been, but still loved Ian the same way he did when he picked him up from jail, after he had stolen his god damn baby, when he hugged him before the psych ward, came to visit him even though the redhead’s mind was fuzzy and obnoxious, even behind bars: he still was thinking of Ian. Loving Ian. That was beyond the boy, how Mickey — known heartless thug of the Southside, who protected his inner circle and if you betrayed him, he’d get locked up for killing you without a second thought — loved Ian throughout the shit he put him through. Pushing him away, forcing him to come out, stealing his kid, refusing his meds, beating him up for caring, breaking up with him. Those simple two words marked on his chest proved that that love was unwavering. 

 

It was four nights later that the matter finally came up. Mickey had been huffing during those days, mostly with a shirt on, though the way Ian looked directly at his chest still was suspicious. He asked once or twice, though recieved that same answer of no, and nothing. The pair were in the dark, moonlight shining through the window as they lay side-by-side on the bed, catching their breaths with the blanket pulled up over their hips. Mickey had a cigarette in one hand, blowing out smoke, while Ian rolled to his side and let one hand fall to the pale skin and trace patterns into it like the sap he was.

  His fingers finally dipped to the words, tracing each individual letter with his index finger, catching Mickey’s slowly drifting attention. He looked down at the letters, eyebrows arching in that almost comical way as everything slowly clicked in his mind. “That what you been starin’ at so much?”

  “Yeah,” was the gentle responce, fingers not halting their tracing of the letters. “I love it.”

  Snorting, Mickey stubbed out the cigarette on the ashtray they kept by the bed. “Dunno why, it’s dumb.”

  “S’not dumb.”

  Their eyes met, and Mickey looked skeptically at Ian, who stared back with that stubborn Gallagher determination. “Yeah, it fuckin’ is. It’s sloppy, and I didn’t even spell your god damn name right.”

  “It’s sweet, Mick. The fact that you put my name on your body, even after ... y’know.”

  “I know,” the older whispered. Yeah, he fucking knew. They didn’t really enjoy talking about this, even now, with Ian stable on his meds and their relationship the best it had ever been. “Still. Kinda hate it.”

  “Well I don’t, so shut the fuck up. Were you gonna get it covered if we never ... fixed things?”

  Mickey had never truly thought about it. Sure, the tattoo was bad and messy and had infections for ages until he could clean it properly but Mickey had never thought once about having it removed or covered. Much like his FUCK U-UP tattoos, he kind of figured he’d always want it. Almost ... need it. Shrugging, Mickey sniffed and took a second to respond. “Nah, man. I loved you, still do. You fuckin’ ruined me for anyone else, and I wanted you there all the time.”

  “Guess I really am under your skin, huh?”

  There was that shit-eating grin that told Mickey that his words meant a lot to Ian (and the fucker found his own joke hilarious). Unable to hold back the way his lips tugged at the corners, Mickey’s hand shoved half-heartedly at Ian’s face. “Shut the fuck up.”


	2. bubblegum smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ He hadn’t been able to look at the work much while it was being done, but once he did see it — he understood exactly what Ian felt when he looked at the ‘Ian Galeger’ tattoo. ”

Two weeks had passed since Ian admitted his love for Mickey’s tattoo, and it had gone just as normal as every other. Well, as normal as a gay Southside couple with families like theirs could get. The redhead still smiled at the letters across Mickey’s chest, traced them whenever he got the chance — to begin with, it made the older a little self-conscious. He thought about getting it fixed, ’cause if Ian was going to keep on loving it like he was, it may as well be correct, right? However, the other seemed perfectly content with it the way it was, said it was too expensive to get fixed though Mickey just thought that Ian liked it like this simply because of when and where and why it was done. And the fact that he had done it himself. Ian was a drama queen in that way. 

  So, he had gotten comfortable with Ian gushing over the stupid fuckin’ tattoo over the couple of weeks. It made him feel pretty good about himself eventually.

  It was another early Saturday morning, this time together on the couch watching a Seagal movie, with Mickey sat comfortably against the couch, one arm propped on the back and the other running through red locks of hair as Ian had his head in the brunet’s lap. Humming, Ian’s eyes fluttered open to look up at Mickey, who looked down at the sound.

  “Been thinkin’ about getting another tattoo,” he said thoughtfully. 

  “Oh yeah?” questioned Mickey with interest. He liked Ian’s tattoo, it was much neater and nicer than his own pair, and was curious as to what else the boy could possibly want inked in his skin. “What’re you thinkin’ ’bout getting?”

  It took a couple of moments for the younger to respond, the silence soft as fingers ran through hair and blue eyes flicked back up to the movie. “Your name.”

  That caught Mickey’s attention, eyes shooting back down to Ian’s, who was looking at him like he hadn’t just said he wanted Mickey’s name tattooed.

  “What? S’fuckin’ stupid, man.”

  Slightly hypocritical in the sense that Mickey had done exactly the same thing with Ian’s name, but the older male knew that it was just _different_. Ian was, well, perfect. He was funny, kind, strong. Mickey loved him with every atom in his being, his red hair and his adorable child-like freckles and big puppy eyes. He may have caused Mickey hell, but that just proved they loved each other since they had both made mistakes, and still had come back to one another. Honestly, Mickey just saw himself as a dirty thug who hid from his father for so long in his life, who did regrettable shit and made people fear him. While he was entirely happy with the image had made for himself, he wasn’t someone worthy of having their name inked into someone like Ian’s skin for the rest of eternity. 

  With a slight chuckle, Ian shook his head. “You said the same thing about yours. I figured if we’re plannin’ on being together long enough for you to keep that, I may as well do the same.”

  “You’re an idiot,” was the reply, leaning down to connect their lips briefly before resuming watching the movie with his heart melting in his chest and his hand still petting Ian’s hair. 

 

Apparently, Ian was really serious about the tattoo. Because on Tuesday, he got up and dressed and when Mickey asked where he was going from his position on the bed, Ian had shrugged and said, “got a tattoo appointment at two.”

  This was how the pair ended up on the Northside, in a fancy little parlor that had pictures of tattoos — good, neat, professional tattoos — stuck on the walls, a book with designs of all sorts in it, and a clean desk and waiting room, with back rooms with actual certified tattoo artists. Mickey didn’t even want to know the price for one of the tattoos he saw on the walls, since it was bound to rob him of nearly his entire life-savings. When he voiced this, Ian just chuckled, shook his head, and told him he was over-dramatic. 

  “Er, hey, I booked an appointment for a tattoo at two o’clock,” he said politely to the heavily tattooed and pierced woman behind the desk, who somehow still looked professional. “Under the name Gallagher?”

  She smiled and tapped at the computer by her quickly, looking up at him and saying, “Mhm. Alright, you can sit down and Andrew will be with you in a minute.”

  “Thanks.”

  The pair sat on two of the comfiest chairs Mickey thought he’d ever sat on, and he leaned over and mumbled to Ian. “Andrew sounds like the name of some fuckin’ Northside prick who’ll hit on you and give you a free tat because he wants to get into your pants.”

  Rolling his eyes, Ian punched Mickey lightly on the shoulder. “Not everyone is into me, Mick. Even if they are, they don’t all want somethin’ from me.”

  Snorting, Mickey punched Ian right back. “Sure, asshole.”

  “Dickhead.”

 

Turns out, Andrew was a tall blond with no tattoos that were visible, a friendly smile and a  sincere look about him. He introduced himself nicely, not at all disgusted by them to Mickey’s surprise, and didn’t even seem offended when Mickey declined his handshake. He asked Ian what he wanted tattooed, and then gave Ian a book of fonts to get the tattoo done in.

  After picking out a nice printed font that would have Mickey’s name in all caps, Ian told Andrew where he wanted it — his hip — and that he wanted a small amount of tribal patterning around it. He spelt out Mickey’s name letter-by-letter as to avoid the mistake that Mickey’s tattoo had, and Andrew smiled and sketched what it’d look like first.

  By the time Ian’s shirt was lifted up and Andrew was beginning to do the lettering, Mickey decided this guy was alright.

  “So, you must be Mickey?” he spoke to the brunet, who had his arms crossed as he sat on a chair on the other side of Ian, watching the ink go into the pale skin.

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice,” he said nicely, wiping down the first ‘M’, “you have some pretty cool tats, too.”

  Unfolding his arms, Mickey flexed out his fingers and looked over the lettering there. He hadn’t expected Northside Andrew to appreciate such a threatening statement. “Thanks. I got ’em done when I was younger.”

  Ian smiled, then hissed a little as the ‘C’ went right over his hipbone. Mickey rolled his eyes, saying, “Don’t be such a pussy,” but reached and took his hand anyway, intertwining their fingers and letting Ian squeeze when a letter pressed on his bone. 

  “You two from the Southside?” asked Andrew as he wiped and continued. When he got a reply of yes, he carried on, eyes never leaving the lettering. “That’s awesome. Me too, actually. S’why I got into tattooing instead of, like, an office job.”

  “You got out, that’s awesome, man,” said Ian, ignoring the way Mickey bit his tongue to stop a sarcastic comment. Andrew nodded. “I’m working as an EMT, and Mickey—”

  “I run a business,” the older filled in, seeing no need to tell Andrew their life story, regardless of if the guy was Southside or not.

  “So you guys a couple?”

  “No shit, he’s just getting my name tattooed and I’m holding his hand for fuckin’ laughs,” spoke the older, and the statement lacked heat but still held a slight warning, squinting his eyes. Ian rolled his eyes, but Andrew seemed unfazed. 

  “Good for you. Must be hard, being Southside and all.”

 

After another forty-five minutes of small talk and the buzzing of the tattoo gun on Ian’s pale skin, it was done. Ian didn’t seem to be in much pain through it, looking at Mickey with these big heart-eyes like he was the entire world instead of some trash from the Milkovich family. It made Mickey feel that weird, soft and mushy feeling that he refused to admit to.

  He hadn’t been able to look at the work much while it was being done, but once he did see it — he understood exactly what Ian felt when he looked at the ‘Ian Galeger’ tattoo. That was his name, permanently inked into Ian’s hipbone, decorated simply with small tribal swirls that stopped above the waist of his jeans. It was really nice, and Mickey felt so much about it. He had spent so long with his shitty Ian tattoo, thinking on how much he loved him when he doubted Ian even loved him back, even thought of him or cared for him, having to be paid to see him and even then hating every second, but this ... this kind of proved it all. That Ian was also in this relationship for good, enough to have the older’s name there, on his skin. In his skin.

  “Do you like it, Mick?” asked Ian, eyeing it in the mirror with a grin.

  Pulling Ian down for a very short kiss, Mickey rested their foreheads together as he told him, “I love it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what im doing anymore help me

**Author's Note:**

> i love the tattoo and hate the gallavich ending so fight me


End file.
